


Red, Obviously

by CookieCatSU



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Blood, Boyd and Huey show up for a quick sec, Does he though?, Fenton gets beat up, Fenton is an idiot, Gyro is emotionally stunted, Gyro watches over him, He acts like he minds, M/M, Realizations Of Feelings, There's a couple curse words, but somehow he's smarter than his genius coworker, injuries, nothing graphic, stunted little man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:53:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: "No, blood! Blood type, Fenton!" Gyro grits his teeth, smacking his forehead, "Not…. Not that… What's your blood type?!"The duck blinks up at him. "Oh... Well, Red"Or; Gizmoduck gets hurt on the job, and Gyro is forced to take care of him.
Relationships: Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera/Gyro Gearloose
Comments: 12
Kudos: 166





	Red, Obviously

Fenton, that idiot, is covered in blood, battered and bruised. The Gizmoduck suit lay crumpled, metal crunched around his appendages to the point that Gyro has no idea how he's extricating himself, beyond the inventor having to take a jackhammer to it.

He looks small, laid out on the ground as he is, half curled up, and visor cracked. A small crowd begins to form just behind them, a semi-circle just outside the two story office building, which had a chunk missing, and glass shards from the windows still showering down, knocked loose by the rampage of that rat lunatic.

That fight with Megavolt turned sour almost immediately. Gyro had told him he wasn't ready- the darn suit had been malfunctioning lately, and Dr. Gearloose was still getting around to fixing it, to evaluating it, to figuring out what the hell changed.

Couldn't he listen, even once, to the genius sitting across from him?

He looks him over, and fear and concern and annoyance bubble up into his throat, clawing and desperate.

"Fen-Gizmoduck, you crusading, over-heroic dumbass, what were you thinking?"

"The city needed me" He slurs, smiling at him with a woozy, woozy smile.

Gyro's jaw clenches.

"Right, you weren't thinking. Obviously!"

Gyro kneels down, checking him over, overcome with concern. When he looks down, he sees blood, pooling on the cement. His hands are stained red with the stuff, and his knees are in a puddle of it, and it keeps leaking out and the air is ripe with the tang of it, of iron. Fenton's bleeding, profusely, from a gash on his forehead, and a puncture to his ribs, and...

"Damn!" He presses both his hands to the wound in an attempt to suffuse the bleeding, "Your leaking everywhere. What's your type, Fenton?"

Fenton's eyes widen, and his smile warbles, somewhat. Then it returns full force, all goey and mushy and nervous, in a way it shouldn't be when one talks about blood.

He tsks a couple times, like it's rocket science. Fuck.

"Oh… well, hmm… Tall, intelligent, handsome" He pauses, giggles, draws the syllables out like they're sweet on his tongue, and Gyro is certain at this point he's lost enough blood to fall out. He clearly isn't thinking straight, spewing nonsensical things…. Perhaps he sustained a concussion? He did take a nasty tumble.

He reaches frantically in his pockets for his cell phone, so he can dial up an ambulance, his other hand still cradling the duck's head.

Fenton continues to ramble.

"-preferably with glasses, the best scientist in the city, bonus if his name starts with Gyro and ends with Gearloose"

Gyro pauses briefly in the search of his missing cellphone (the one he left sitting in the lab), caught so off guard he can't help but stare. Fenton's looking right back at him, eyes half lidded, exhausted, but looking so _enamored_ it's disgusting. It's a look he's seen before (perhaps not directed at him) and a look he himself has donned a couple times, so long ago it feels like a lifetime.

Then he realizes Fenton's talking about _him,_ that he's been talking about him for a minute and a half.

He flushes, and he nearly drops the idiot, hands splaying out in agitation, as he's overcome with annoyance and frustration and something else he can't (refuses to) identify.

"No, blood! Blood type, Fenton!" He grits his teeth, smacking his forehead, "Not…. Not _that…_ What's your _blood_ type?!"

The duck blinks, "Oh…. Well, Red" Obviously.

Obviously.

Gyro shakes his head, and drops him on the ground, leaving in search for the nearest phone.

"Hey, you. Yes, you! Let me have that phone"

* * *

When Fenton comes to, he's back in the lab. His muscles are raw and burning, and sitting up from where he's laid out on a workbench is a struggle that leaves him sitting slouched at the edge, so sore he doesn't think he'll ever move again.

Gyro is only a few feet away, leant up against the stage used to test prototypes, situated in the middle of the room, instead of at his desk. He's fiddling with their newest prototype, screwdriver in hand, huffing and puffing and agitated, distracted in a way Dr. Gearloose never was. There's this thin, stormy cloud of fear wrapped around him, an all consuming coat.

The moment he hears noise, he stands up, hovering like a mother hen watching her chicklets.

"What happened?" Fenton asks, wiping at his eyes with a hiss. It still hurt to move his arms.

Gyro relaxes somewhat. Whatever wide eyed concern he'd been feeling dissipates, as he watches Fenton move and breath and speak, the tightness around his shoulders slackening, 

"You bled all over my favorite dress shirt. Also, you got rather beat up, as you should already know, and I had to patch you up" Gyro usually didn't play doctor.

Fenton nods, with a little grimace. It was all coming back, slowly but surely.

"Oh, Thank you. Hopefully it wasn't too much trouble"

"Oh yes, because lugging around a grown man in a tin can suit while he bleeds all over me is no trouble at all," he snorts, "And do you have any idea how hard it is to treat someone, when the closest thing you have to a first aid kit, is a damn screwdriver?"

He doesn't sound angry, or frustrated. If anything, he's amused, the smothered half laugh in his voice rather difficult not to hear.

"Yikes. I need to be more careful…" Gyro murmurs a near silent, _please do_ , in avid agreement, "Are you even qualified to give medical attention?" 

Hell no. Gyro knew about as much about anatomy, biology, as it took to pass a single high school course. So nothing, really.

He rolls his eyes anyway, up and around and to the heavens, as he takes a seat on the floor, leant up against the workbench to the left of Cabrera.

"Oh pish, posh, hush. You're still alive, aren't you?" He shrugs, with a haughty sigh, "The housekeeper supervised, to make sure I didn't make any glaring mistakes. Apparently you can't use a staple gun to close a wound. The tissue's too 'delicate'"

"No, that sounds about right Dr. Gearloose"

And there it is. The way he says his name. Lingering just a moment too long on the last syllable, like there's a treat in being able to say it, the tiniest bit breathless as it leaves his beak. It reminds Gyro too keenly of the bold faced declaration his fellow scientist's oxygen deprive, addled brain had produced earlier today.

Tall. Intelligent. _Handsome_. And if he hadn't already had some suspicions, then: Starting with _Gyro_ and ending with _Gearloose_.

There really was no arguing, or twisting, or misrepresenting _that_.

The inventor wonders how many signs he's missed, how many googly eyes and idiocy. He wonders when the heck _he_ was going to be informed of this.

_The red triplet gives him an odd look, directed over soldering board._

_"Hmmm. Oh yeah, I already knew" He doesn't sound surprised. Bemused, more than anything, "It was pretty obvious, right?"_

_"No. It wasn't" Gyro grits out._

_Hubert smirks, turns from his spot spread out across the lab floor, and shouts across the room, "Boyd?"_

_"Yes, Huey?"_

_"Did you know about Fenton and Dr. Gearloose?"_

_"Oh yes. Doesn't everyone?"_

"So, how long have I been out anyway? What have you been working on? Did you finish up the latest schematic?"

"No" He pauses, before adding rather abruptly, "Apparently I'm your type?"

"What? How'd you surmise th-"

It's almost fun, to watch him squirm, watching him get red and flustered, but it quickly loses its appeal. It seems cruel, somehow, to watch him flounder like that. Too cruel, even for him.

 _He loves you_ , some far out, remote part of his mind supplies, a part he resolutely ignored. People did not _love_ Gyro. No, people feared him, hated him, despised him, even. People looked at him and saw a crazed lunatic with a screwloose, a disillusioned menace who left nothing but destruction in his wake. Most people could not see the vision, like he could. They could not imagine, the grandeur, the _innovation_ , because he wasn't there yet, instead blinded to _possibility_ by the failures, the mistakes, the half crumbled death machines scrapped in the closet.

It's part of why he builds robots, machines. It's part of why he pulls Lil Bulb and Boyd so close, his first successes, and keeps them anchored at his side. At least they understand. They understand. _They_ see.

People did not love Gyro. People boxed away and misrepresented and held him back. It's an impossibility that Fenton could either, love him, that is, because he's not one of his machines, and they _had to_ because they were perfectly logical and couldn't be blinded by missed social cues or too gruff, cutting words which really didn't mean anything and did it matter that sometimes, sometimes, sometimes, he forgot to say 'Hello' because he was busy and had real concerns besides the judgements of some idiot receptionist who wouldn't stop frowning at him, even though he apologized!... and he wants so desperately for him to be able to like him because… 

_You love him too!_ The unwanted realization comes sudden, fast, before the thought is squashed, crushed, pushed away as far as possible.

"You said it" He says, with a shrug, trying to keep a cool head. He flexes his hand. Once. Twice. Not quite looking at Fenton. "You made a list of all the attributes you'd like in a romantic partner, you're 'type', and all of the characteristics were ones I embodied to a tee"

Fenton gulps, blushing, bright red enough to rival a traffic cone.

"I don't... remember that. What exactly did I say?"

"I'm not surprised. You were out of it. You mentioned how intelligent and handsome I was, and also that you liked that I was tall. You mentioned my glasses as well" That'd been odd, honestly. In a good way, he supposed, but odd nonetheless. People generally didn't mention his glasses at all, other than to pass on a snide Four Eyes or something. He pushes the aforementioned spectacles further up the bridge of his beak with a laugh, 

"I'm also holding you to the admission that I'm the best scientist in the city"

Fenton laughs uncomfortably, but does not respond. 

"Look" What to say? What to say? He's never been good at this: at knowing what to say or how to comfort someone or how to best break an awkward silence.

Forthrightness both comes too easily and not nearly easily enough, as he chokes on the emotions he honestly wishes he didn't have.

"Perhaps I like short, bumbling, shortstacks, and maybe I can concede that I find a particular duck's optimism, while misguided and ridiculously stupid, to be a sorely needed breath of fresh air, as well as possibly, also… endearing. I might even go as far as to say I greatly admire his intellect, which is very nearly on par with my own, but that's neither here nor there" 

"And this duck-" Fenton nearly sings.

"Is you, obviously. Could I not be more clear. Do I need to shout it from the rooftops?"

Fenton seems to consider for a moment, before he smiles smugly. "I'd like to see that"

"Oh hush" Gyro replies, but he's somewhat relieved.

Everything would be fine, it seemed.  
  



End file.
